


The Hedgehog's Dilemma, Part I

by orphan_account



Series: Human Instrumentality Project [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/F, GC turns a shitfic into a hitchfic., LOOK! PLOT DEVELOPMENTS!, Newly Engaged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’ll be <em>fine</em>. They’ll love you.” Hawkeye adjusted the collar of Armstrong’s dress shirt, smoothed it over at the lapel with a practised roll of the wrist. This roll she had perfected over the years with her father and later with Mustang, both of them wearing nearly identical fits—or perhaps the student had emulated the master in more ways than the student had realised, or wished to let on. Armstrong’s frown lingered nevertheless. Hawkeye watched her fiancée examine her reflection in the standing mirror with a knitted brow. Pulling on the collar with more force than necessary, Hawkeye planted her palms firmly into Armstrong’s chest.  “I’ve known Gracia for a very long time. And if <em>I</em> love you, then <em>she</em> certainly will.”</p><p>Armstrong met her gaze. The determined set of her mouth and telltale flame in her eye almost offset the palpable tension.</p><p>“You honestly think I’m worried about some paltry social function?” She shrugged. “If your acquaintances dislike me, then they’re welcome to their own shitty opinions. I don’t think I could give a damn if I tried, Riza.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hedgehog's Dilemma, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my tongue-in-cheek named series _Human Instrumentality Project_. Prompt "Attributes D - engagement versus detachment". Specifically, this handles two different forms of engagement and detachment in various spheres.
> 
> Female friendships are important and you can't stop me from putting them in here. I'm unsure if I'm going to just do flat Edwin here or if I'm going to go with my usual Paninya-Winry-Edward polyamory headcanon, in which Winry has consensual and important relationships with both Paninya and Ed. Hmmmmmmmmmmm. Blech.
> 
> Oh boy, plot development and tension.
> 
> Next chapter's going to take place at the same time temporally and be from Armstrong's perspective.
> 
> Unedited/unbeta'd/etc. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, I'm taking a break from writing all fic. I'll go ahead and post what I have [I have about six or seven fics on the back burner that I wrote in advance for just such a time]. But I need a mental break for a few days because my depression just returned with full force and I need a minute to get my head straight.
> 
> Catch you guys on the flip side.

“You’ll be _fine_. They’ll love you.” Hawkeye adjusted the collar of Armstrong’s dress shirt, smoothed it over at the lapel with a practised roll of the wrist. This roll she had perfected over the years with her father and later with Mustang, both of them wearing nearly identical fits—or perhaps the student had emulated the master in more ways than the student had realised, or wished to let on. Armstrong’s frown lingered nevertheless. Hawkeye watched her fiancée examine her reflection in the standing mirror with a knitted brow. Pulling on the hems of the collar with more force than necessary, Hawkeye planted her palms firmly into Armstrong’s chest.  “I’ve known Gracia for a very long time. Over a decade, since I first met her while she was still working as a field nurse. And if _I_ love you, then _she_ certainly will.”

Armstrong met her gaze. The determined set of her mouth and telltale flame in her eye almost offset the palpable tension.

“You honestly think I’m worried about some paltry social function?” She shrugged. “If your acquaintances dislike me, then they’re welcome to their own shitty opinions. I don’t think I could give a damn if I tried, Riza.”

Hawkeye arched an eyebrow. Turning to face the mirror herself, she tugged down the edge of her blouse and snapped the belt of her long skirt, flattening out the wrinkles. “You don’t care what my friends feel about you?”

She could hear Armstrong’s jaw snap shut with an audible click of the teeth. “I care for your sake.”

“I think that you secretly do want to feel accepted, Olive.” She crouched down to slip on her shoes. “ _No one_ prefers dominating the world.”

Armstrong snorted out half a laugh. “I would feel much more comfortable rowdying around with my men than with—”

“I know.” Hawkeye offered her a smile, reassuring, and strapped her purse to her shoulder. A different shade of lipstick, hair freshly washed and dried, a hint of rouge at her cheeks. Seldom she prettied herself, but she had to admit that meeting friends presented an opportunity to do so at her leisure, where no one would leer at her and she could enjoy herself on her own time. “But when two people are married, their families marry too.”

She could _sense_ Armstrong’s biting retort hanging partially formed in her fiancée’s mouth—something like _as if my family deserves you_ or _I’d rather leave mine leave, instead_ —but somehow Armstrong caught the slippery word before it passed her lips.

“And the family I’ve found will have to do.” She closed the doors of the wardrobe, cast a final glance into the looking glass, and sighed. Not quite of frustration. Not quite of relief. Armstrong touched her shoulder and Hawkeye followed up her arm to her face.

“I’m sorry,” said Armstrong with that particular lilt of someone not entirely certain for what she might have been apologising. “But, Riza—”

She fumbled for Hawkeye’s mouth; tilting her head back Hawkeye gave herself willingly to the kiss, warm and wet and sparking a flame in her chest. Flared hot as usual, if dulled at the edges by the muggy fog. The tip of Armstrong’s tongue ran over her lower lip and Hawkeye sucked it into her mouth, caught it at the back of her throat, swirled the writhing tongue into submission before taking a breath. Hawkeye felt fingers push into the small of her back. Armstrong dipped her. Dipped her, as she had the four or five years prior at the military ball where the two had first sensed that spark between them.

Hawkeye’s hair tumbled over her shoulders. Her chest heaved. Panting, she laced her fingers around the back of Armstrong’s neck, broke the kiss just long enough to touch together their noses. “God,” she whispered, referring to none other than Armstrong, “I love you so much, Olive.”

Armstrong chuckled. “I should hope so. Since you’re marrying me.” She leaned forward to kiss her again, softly, on her mouth. “I love you too.”

Hawkeye lowered her eyelids until her world narrowed to the warmth of her fiancée’s embrace, of her fiancée’s kiss, of her fiancée’s presence.

“Mm.” Less a word so much as a breath.

As a prayer.

 

Hawkeye parked the vehicle at the cul-de-sac and glanced up at the house at the end of the way. Gracia Hughes had left the apartment complex a few years prior—despite city ordinances allotting the complexes to both families serving the government, the administration had proffered to grant Gracia an exception that she had steadfastly declined—having elected instead to move to Central’s bustling downtown and live down the road from the train station. If Hawkeye listened carefully she could just pick up the faint glass harmonica sound of a train’s whistle.

Leashing Black Hayate at her heel, she allowed Armstrong to take her hand into her arm in the manner of a gentlewoman. At the house Hawkeye knocked. Dashed footsteps on the other side. “You might want to prepare yourself,” she remarked, barely able to keep the amusement in check. Armstrong’s eyebrows quirked up.

The door _exploded_ open. Against a gust of warmth the nine-year-old girl in the bright green dress bounced up and down, clapping wildly. “Auntie Riza! _And_ Blackie! And Auntie Ollie!”

Armstrong replied with a noise like the low whine of an injured bear, and Hawkeye gripped her arm tightly. “Olive, this is Elicia. Elicia, this is Aunt Olivier.”

“Auntie Ollie.” Elicia pouted. “It practically rhymes, see?” Before she could continue Black Hayate snagged her attention with a bark. Hawkeye let go. The dog and his girl raced off to announce the guests’ arrival while Hawkeye and Armstrong exchange a glance.

Hawkeye burst out laughing. “You look so _offended_.”

“Auntie ‘Ollie’?” Armstrong muttered. “I can handle Olive just fine, but ‘Ollie’ is pushing it. If she were under my—”

“Ah, but she’s not. If we ever have children, you’ll have to learn to be patient. As I have.”

Armstrong’s frown deepened; Hawkeye’s smile widened. “I’m perfectly patient.” She paused, as though mulling over Hawkeye’s words. The captain watched her carefully for that exact second of recognition. The widened eyes. The slight parting of the lips. The snap of the head in her direction—but Hawkeye had already left her jacket on the coat rack and Armstrong at the entrance to find her way to the kitchen.

A familiar blonde head bobbed over cupboards. Hawkeye felt the smile spread across her features. “Winry!”

The girl—a woman, now, at the age of twenty-one—turned her head back. In that moment she banged her wrist against the edge of the counter. Hawkeye blinked at the surprisingly shortened hair, like Winry had lopped off the entire back end of her locks. “Ah-h! Miss Hawkeye!”

“Please, _Riza_ is perfectly fine. Winry, how are—” Winry tossed herself at the older woman, who caught her in a tight embrace. “—you?”

“It’s been so long!” Stepping back, Winry snatched up Hawkeye’s left hand, inspected it closely, and beamed. “Oh! I heard _all_ about the engagement. Congratulations.” Glancing left and right, she lowered her tone conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I’m surprised that the general’s taking it as easy he is.” Her expression seemed half-knowing and half-questioning.

Hawkeye exhaled through her nose. “He’s had a few years to reconcile himself.”

“Oh, I know! I wonder if he always thought he’d end up with you. You know, the childhood friend and everything.” Winry returned to the cupboards, opening and closing each one with a small explosion of noise. “I know that Ed always thought you two’d together in the end. Something about five-twenty cenz promise, even.”

“That was for when he became Führer.” Hawkeye shook her head. “The stories Ed’ll tell you. What are you looking for?”

Winry grimaced. “Ginger.”

Hawkeye’s turn to stand and stare for a moment, two, three, a series of beats coinciding with Winry’s movements through the kitchen. Then: “I assume congratulations are in order here.”

“I feel bloated,” Winry said miserably, and Hawkeye studied her for the first time: Wearing a looser shirt with a black jacket as opposed to her usual white top, she sported a definite curve to her belly that Hawkeye had attributed to merely a gain in weight. “And I’ve still most half a year to go.”

“Congratulations, then.” Hawkeye opened her arms; Winry gratefully accepted the second hug. “Children are wonderful, you know.”

Winry nodded against her. Hawkeye had been wrong: She’d curled her hair into a looped updo at the back of her head instead, secured with a small pin of a distinctly Xingese design. “Mmhm. I’d always wanted to be a mother. That was the plan: I bring the Rockbell name to Rush Valley; Ed goes on his trip around the world; and when he comes back, we settle down.” She swallowed down air. Hawkeye eyed the sink, poised to thrust Winry in its direction. “I’m all right; I’m all right. Sorry. It’s definitely not for everyone, though. Motherhood, I mean. May and Paninya—oh, you probably don’t know them, but Paninya’s the co-owner of the automail shop with me down in Rush Valley, and May—”

“—is the little Xingese girl who saved my life on the Promised Day,” Hawkeye supplied, voice soft. Winry inhaled; Hawkeye felt the young woman curl her fingers suddenly inwards. The Promised Day, half a decade past, still cut deep into the soul of someone who had only existed in its periphery. Where Hawkeye had combated the ramifications over days and weeks and months and years, Winry had gone on to relive becoming a sacrifice perhaps only in the nightmares that shook her awake in the dead of the darkest midnight.

She reached over Winry’s shoulder to the kitchen drawer on the top right, slid it open, and tapped the handle. “You’ll find the ginger in there, if I know Gracia at all. Is May here?”

Winry seized the recovery with both hands along with the opportunity to speak of other things. “Mmhm! The Rockbell-Elrics were in town anyway to come visit our friends. All of us! Mrs Hughes invited us over, and you know how hard it is to say _no_ to her.” Hawkeye and Winry laughed together, their combined happiness cleaving the night air into bursts of fireworks. Then Winry lunged for the sink.

Now Hawkeye understood the purpose of the pinned-up hair. Stepping forward to stand by her side, the captain stroked her hair while she retched. Mostly clear-ish liquid. Either Winry had kept to light meals, or she vomited recently. After dry-heaving for several minutes Winry panted, gasping for breath in thick inhalations if though she were breathing through syrup. Wiped her mouth on a towel that hung over the handle of one of the drawers. Washed out the basin of the sink.

Hawkeye poured her a cup of water. “Thank you,” she managed. Still breathing heavily she drank it down to the final drop; Hawkeye poured her another, then a third, while Winry gradually quieted. Her hand had come to rest over her navel, over her belly, and Hawkeye could not tell if the reaction were purposeful or instinctive. “Sorry. It’s usually not that bad, but I can smell the food from here, and by the way that’s another thing that’s just _awful_ about motherhood. Everything tastes wrong, and smells wrong. Gotta stick to rabbit food and crackers. It’s the _wo-o-o-orst_.”

The captain patted her shoulder as kindly as she could. “I can imagine.”

“Win? Winry?” Edward’s voice, from outside of the door. Hawkeye and Winry lifted their heads at the same time as Edward swung himself through the entrance, pivoting around his right hand still holding onto the door frame. “Oh, there you are. You’ve gotta save me from these parties. Win, are you—” He inspired, presumably at the sight of her pale face, and nearly tripped over himself to bolt to her side.

Hawkeye let go while Edward hugged her against him. “Ed, Ed, I _told_ you. I’m perfectly fine. Really, I’m completely fine, and there’s no need for you to— _Ed_!”

He held her, _crushed_ her in his embrace as if in terrible danger of losing her. Hawkeye hid her smile by turning away as Edward ruffled her hair and Winry complained about him suffocating her and they kissed over the kitchen sink, like Edward hadn’t noticed the smell of vomit on her breath and she didn’t care that the taste of his mouth would bid her retch over again.

Leaving the lovebirds as they were, Hawkeye padded to the doorway beyond the kitchen, the doorway from which Edward had come. She emerged on the other side to the dining room, where Gracia had already covered a number of plates on the table.

Alphonse was setting out dishes while May and Elicia took turns trading stories about animals, or possibly making up some tale involving Black Hayate and May’s little cat; Hawkeye couldn’t quite tell from the scrap of conversation.

Elicia waved eagerly to Hawkeye. “Auntie Riza, if you’re looking for Uncle Roy, he’s talkin’ to Auntie Ollie on the veranda!”

May and Alphonse winced in unison; Hawkeye’s smile froze on her mouth as though she had fit a curved scythe of ice between her lips. The noises in the room sharpened a thousandfold despite the heartbeat that drummed in her ears and throat and chest, her ribs caving inwards even as the soldier in her locked to resolve to tempered steel. “Where’s your mother?”

“Mama? She’s out helping Auntie Ninya with the cake from the bakery!” Elicia jumped up in her seat. “She made some little cakes just for us, but she got a real _biiig_ cake too. I don’t think that Auntie Ollie and Uncle Roy like each other very much,” she commented without a change in volume or tone, “and—Auntie Riza! You can’t just _le-e-eave!_ I was _talking_ — _whoa!_ ”

Hawkeye pelted over the table. Leaped over the chairs. Flew through the doorway with her gaze locked like a sniper’s rifle onto the balcony. Grabbed the handles, the white flaking off to black beneath. Opened the door to cut through the warmth of the Hugheses’ house and welcome the blade of chill from outside.

Mustang. Armstrong. One with gloved fingers wrapped around the railing of the balcony. The other with a hand at the hip-holstered gun.

At Hawkeye’s intrudence both lowered their weapons of silence.

The general acknowledged: “Captain Hawkeye.”

The Führer demanded: “Riza.”

A beat or two of a quiet so complete she could no longer sense her own heart. Then the world bloomed in motion again: Mustang fishing into his coat pocket for something or other; Armstrong striding against the balcony; Hawkeye snagging her wrist.

“Follow me,” Armstrong snapped.

“Technically—” Mustang spoke with a timbre so level that Hawkeye could see the artery pulsating at Armstrong’s throat. “—I’m her C.O.”

“Well then.” Armstrong jerked her arm from Hawkeye’s grip—Hawkeye’s fingers closed around icy vacancy—and ripped ope the balcony door. Hesitated. Turned, about to say— _something_ — _anything_ —

Left.

The door slammed tightly shut and a splotch of white paint flaked off. It alighted on Hawkeye’s left hand, on the knuckle of her ring finger.


End file.
